


Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?

by tchallabucky (PuppyWillGraham)



Series: stevebucky drabbles [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Feelings, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, jewish!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppyWillGraham/pseuds/tchallabucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Bucky's 99th birthday, and he takes a small trip down Memory Lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?

Bucky walks. He walks, and walks, and walks. It's his birthday and he's walking, no destination in mind, hands shoved into his pockets even as he dwells on the past few months since breaking free of HYDRA's hold on him.  
  
He'd been terrified, at first, terrified that they were going to come back for him. His handlers, his owners, but worst of all, his commander. The last thing that had transpired between them was a slap across his face, he thinks. Things were still difficult for him to remember, even as he was slowly beginning to recover.  
  
The pavements beneath his feet are home to him, he knows this deep down, and it had lessened the constant tightening knot of nerves in his lower gut making him want to throw up every so often. He's come home.  
  
The brunette only looks up when he wants to check which way he's going so he doesn't fall over his own two feet, before ducking his head once more, lowering his gaze, making him seem smaller than he actually is. It's a submissive gesture, an obedient one, and even when he hadn't been on a mission during his time under HYDRA's thumb, it had been easy to slip into that role of subordinate, that sub-species. He was lower than low, to them. Not to mention the fact that he was apparently Jewish, although he doesn't remember ever practising it much.  
  
How could he separate what was actually real and what he had been plied with mind wipes and electroshock therapy and being put on ice?  
  
Glancing up after an undetermined amount of time-- _which was odd for him, in and of itself, seeing as he used to be so punctual, or at least he likes to think he was, once upon a time_ \--he sees that he's walked right the way to a place called Coney Island.  
  
The sun is just starting to set and he makes his way past the gates, almost cautious of the amount of people. Not fearful of them, really; you didn't spend decades perfecting the art of slipping into places undetected, taking them out from the inside, to become scared at the prospect of a large crowd in the aftermath.  
  
If anyone was following, watching him, then...let them. He was ninety-nine years old, apparently, but that didn't mean he would just lie down if a spot of bother happened to arise. He would do just as he'd been doing for however long he could remember - fight, to whatever extent was needed, then slip away. The programming was still there, of course, as long as he still had HYDRA's titanium alloy bionic hooked up to his brain, so if he felt the need to kill someone for attacking him, then... Well, the rest would be just as it had been before, history.  
  
Each amusement he passes happens to...somehow...brighten his mood a little bit, lift it, until he's actually _smiling_. For whatever reason.  
  
Then...it happens.  
  
"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?"  
  
It's his own voice, tight with tension. He...remembers. He sees himself and that blonde standing out in the cold. Not exactly a blizzard, but it may have been, if the chill down to his bones-- _from fear, it would soon become apparent, although the present Bucky hadn't felt anything other than the numb certainty of a kill in seventy years_ \--was anything to go by.  
  
"Yeah, and I threw up."  
  
That's the blonde speaking now, and Bucky chances a glance up, right up, until he's looking up, staring, gaping, at the roller coaster he's found himself frozen in front of.  
  
He remembers a lot of things, all at once.  
  
He remembers laughing, teasing, winding that tiny little fella up after they'd been on said roller coaster, just the once. He remembers how it'd felt to smooth his hand over the other male's back, switching from teasing to concern and care in an instant-- _only ever with that tiny fella from Brooklyn, not Ohio, or anywhere else, for that matter_ \--repeatedly asking if the blonde was okay, if he wanted to leave yet, only to be shrugged off with a firm, "no, Buck, it's your birthday. Don't let a little thing like this ruin it. I'll be fine."  
  
He had been fine, of course. He always was, wasn't he?  
  
They'd rode the Cyclone two more times after that, before making their way around Coney Island and back to Brooklyn Bridge.  
  
It was a long, tiring walk, and he remembers offering a piggy back, out of jest, to which he thinks Steve-- _...that's who it was, right? He used to be smaller?_ \--had rolled his eyes, snorted a huff of a laugh under his breath, and shook his head 'no'.  
  
They'd watched the sun set over the horizon, and almost held hands. Nobody else was around, they were both in high spirits, and Bucky had noticed-- _not for the first time, he guesses_ \--how the sun seemed to make his best friend look ethereal, almost angelic, even with all of his health problems and ailments. Bucky may have been looking through rose-tinted, pining-worthy glasses back then, though, he was endlessly and hopelessly sweet on him.  
  
The present realization of such a fact makes him sit down on a bench fast, holding his head in his hands, his heart thudding hard against his chest enough to make it hurt, albeit dully.  
  
Why had he come here alone?  
  
What was the point of remembering things, having these memories back in tact, if he had nobody to share them with?


End file.
